


It's 1 AM, and You are Lost

by Carolinathousandcities, thefrankydoyles



Series: 1am [2]
Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-06-21
Packaged: 2019-04-22 14:31:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14310756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carolinathousandcities/pseuds/Carolinathousandcities, https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefrankydoyles/pseuds/thefrankydoyles
Summary: When the sky is black, and you are still, you let yourself think of her.





	1. Bridget, Franky, 05x12

**Author's Note:**

> What started as one am ramblings in the form of Bridget Westfall from Carolinathousandcities, and a piggybacking writing exercise as Franky Doyle by Josclyn.. turned into this. Enjoy and we would love to hear your thoughts!

Every now and then, when you close your eyes, even though it’s well and _truly_ dark already…

You think maybe.

You think please. 

You think if you can just thread your hands through her hair one more time, feel smooth, dark strands between your knuckles until you hit a snag and she elbows you in the ribs…if you can do that one more time it will be enough. 

Press your forehead against hers so hard your noses touch and your breath twists together in the gap. Whisper, _I love you_ , so that she can feel it on her skin as well as hear it. 

It will be enough.  

But it won’t be will it?

You will always want more of her.  
  
Even the first day you’d met her. You hadn’t known it then, not like _that_ , but you’d recognised something and asked for more of her. Chased her down a hallway and watched her destroy an entire room even though her heart wasn’t in it.

You’d asked for more again, and again, after that.    
And most days…god, most days, she’d given it to you. Given it to you even when it made her lips shake and her fists bunch and made her want to run.

Some days.

Some days you’d had to drag it out of her while she hit walls and screamed curses and jabbed fingers in your face.

You hadn’t cared.

You wanted it _all_.

Wanted her.  
  
She’d asked for pieces of you too. You’d given them. Part of you thought she might take them and run, leaving you at half capacity.

She had not. 

She’d given you more right back. 

You had her for a while. Really had her. At least, you’d thought you did at the time.

And it was golden.

God. 

Wine stained tongues and lingering looks and dinners that went on for an hour because you’d both talked so much you’d nearly forgotten to eat. Gentle finger tips down the back of your arm and spinning in the living room and _her_ … around every corner. 

She filled up an entire room just by being in it, Franky Doyle.  

In a **good** way. In a way that made the walls hold their breath just to see what she was going to say next, what she was going to do. In a way that had made you hold your wine glass up to your mouth just that second longer so you could watch her from underneath half lidded eyes. In a way that made you catch yourself staring even while your fingers typed reports. 

You had her. 

And then you lost her. 

You cannot even define the moment that it happened. 

But it had.  

 

 

* * *

 

You wake up in a sweat, your cries caught in a silent battle at the base of your throat.

You reach over, fingertips searching blindly for an anchor to tether to. For the only anchor that has ever kept you at bay but has not chained you down.

You reach for her. But she’s not there.

Of course she’s not.

Instead, your palm brushes against wet leaves, and a broken branch cracks under the shifted weight of your boot. There is mud under your fingernails and dried, browning blood lining the rough skin of your elbow.

You do not think of her during the day. You can’t.

If you think of her while the sun is shining and children are laughing as they slide and swing and run in the distance, you will forget.

You will forget that you are not free. That you cannot go home. Not yet.

So you push on through the days, move as fast as you can, because fuck, all you want to do is go _home_.

But when the sky is black, and you are still, you let yourself think of her.

You think of the way her lips press together and the corners of her eyes tilt and narrow when she is amused. Of the deep freckles that line her abdomen. How you kissed every single one the first time that you saw her bare skin.

You think of the way she _didn’t_ kiss your scars, the first time she saw you. How she didn’t try to paint them over.

But you wish she _could_ paint her tongue over the newly raw, torn skin of your throbbing arm.

Maybe then, the scar might never come.

You think of the way that she cannot stand to wear anything but a t-shirt after a long day at work. _Your_ t-shirt, preferably. The white one that is two sizes too big on you, and four on her.

You do _not_ think of the tears that you have surely caused, that have been streaked and stained onto the thin fabric countless times over by now.

And you do not think of the way that you left her that morning, in that t-shirt. You did not wake her. The sight of her blonde, tousled hair and open mouth, and the steady, peaceful, rise and fall of her chest, was too much to disrupt. So instead, you had leaned down and kissed her cheek, breathing a barely audible _‘I love ya, Gidge’_ into her skin.

You had prayed, hoped with all of your being, that she had heard that. That she felt it.

Because you did not get to tell her that you would not be coming home.

But would you have done it differently, had you _known_ that you would not be coming home that night? Probably not.

You think of the way you used to catch her looking at you, when you were bent over a law text or humming at the stove. Like you were some sort of mirage. The kind that tricked your eyes at the end of a hot day, when the sun was setting and vibrant, beautiful, pinks and yellows would streak across the sky.

There are no pinks and yellows now.

Right now, there is only black, so dark that you think, maybe, you are floating in the middle of the sea, instead of tucked beneath some scattered brush outside of the city.

 

You are at sea, and you are lost.

But you will find your way home.


	2. Franky, 06x01

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You saw her today. You swore you wouldn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Franky POV post 06x01. Apologies that this is probs the shortest fic chapter I've ever posted
> 
> Thank you so much to my loves AshleighSixx and Generalantiope for being the most amazing betas xx

You saw her today.  
  
You swore you wouldn’t. You swore that the first words you spoke to her after screaming _‘I love you’_ across a fucking darkened street would be one of two things.  
  
_'I did it, Gidge. I’ve found it.’_

Or

_‘I failed.’_

But that lasted for all of forty-eight hours, didn’t it?

Forty-eight hours of simultaneously moving so  _fast_ that your lungs ache in a dull, continuous throb, and so _slow_ that you think if you were to _stop_ , even just for one second, that the universe would waste no time in swallowing you up on the spot.

_Go, go, go, go. Do not stop. You stop, you are dead._

But you thought... maybe, just maybe, if you see her—if you _go home_ , then maybe it would be okay to stop, just for a moment.

It was for just a moment. And it was selfish.

_“I was gonna ask you for a ride.”_

That somehow seemed better at the time than _‘I was just desperate for ya,’_ because how fucking selfish is _that_?

But maybe the latter would have been better than another fuckin’ lie. Even if you _could have_ used the ride. You’re not even sure if you would have let her drive you, anyway. Especially not with that fucking broken leg. How the fuck did that even happen? What could have happened to her in the two days since you saw her strutting—both legs fully functional—across the pavement, looking at you like you were some kind of enigmatic mirage?

What did she say? That she was rushing?

Yeah, probably _rushing_ to pack up your things, so that if the police came ‘round, there would be no traces of _you._

 _Your_ fault.

You hurt her, _again_.

And yet she still fucking _wants_ you. Fucking loves _you._

You are fully aware that you do not deserve her love.

_“We are gonna get another lawyer, okay? I’ll remortgage the house.”_

_We._

_The_ house.

Mere syllables that told you _‘This is still your home._ **_I_ ** _am still your home.’_

No, you do not deserve Bridget. Bridget, who still smiles at you like you are the sun.

You are not the sun. You’re a fractured moon, at best, waning ever so slightly as the clock ticks against you.

_Tick, tock. Tick, tock._

If you do not beat this clock then you will waste away to nothing, and unlike the moon, this time, you will not come back stronger, brighter, fuller.

So you’ll keep going. Because you cannot stop.

You will make this right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carolinathousandcities will be gracing us with a Bridget POV from 06x01 in the next chapter ;). As always please let me know what you think I survive on comments and kudos


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